circle7 | the historian's secrets (cologne)

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the historian's secrets (cologne)

Vico brushed into the room with a clear air of irritation, obvious from even the sound of his footfall as he stomped up the stairs, and clearer yet when he all but kicked open the door and slammed it shut again, throwing his heavier weapons onto one of the beds of the room they had rented during their (hopefully) short stay in Germany. Foreign missions, higher in priority, also cost higher, in terms of resources and time spent, and it was customary for recruits to be gone up to an entire week while carrying out the Brotherhood's orders in unfamiliar lands. There was situating, scouting, and planning involved, all made more difficult because neither of them knew the streets of Cologne quite like they knew those of Romagna, and the patience required in the preparation stage of the mission was wearing on Vico's not-quite-infinite supply of patience.

When he pulled down his hood, mussing up the brown curls on the top of his head, Vico rubbed at a particularly impressive bruise forming on his left cheek, small, compact, and shaped like a rounded rectangle. They had seen enough of such bruises to know that it was probably the work of a well-timed and well-aimed punch, most likely one that Vico had returned with just as much accuracy and probably three times as much force. "These Germans are more skittish than the pigeons in Italy," he muttered, as means of explanation, perhaps. "They jump at every little thing, it is ridiculous!" He waved an arm, expressive as his Italian blood made him, and threw it up at the ceiling as if cursing some imaginary god up there. "You so much as breathe the wrong way and they start pointing their spears at you!"

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"Ah, you should have been more specific," Vico sniffed, disappearing from view for a moment before he leapt out of the window himself, landing on his feet in a crouch, not unlike a cat. As he straightened, he held out the leather sheath to Adamo, or rather, pushed it against the other man's chest and withdrawing, simply expecting him to take it in time. "How was dinner?"

Taking the sheath, Adamo slid his sword in, tying it at his side with a huff.

"Nicer than expected. You missed out," he said, and all of a sudden he sported a grin. That wasn't the only thing on his face, either - was that... smudged make-up? "Italian women may have more beauty, but German women are just about as kind."

"You may sing that song now, but let's see if you are harping on it when you land yourself an illegitimate German bastard," Vico said, rolling his eyes. He hardly found Adamo's usage of time unexpected, considering just the other day, the man had come home flat broke without a penny to his name thanks to the Rosa in Fiore. ...Wait.

Vico wheeled on him, incredulous. "Did you use our mission funding for that?"

"Of course I didn't!" Adamo tilted his chin up, indignant. "I didn't want to keep you waiting, so I decided it could wait. It's not my fault she kissed me anyway."

"I didn't say it was." Arm shooting out, Vico pinched Adamo's cheek, pulling it up to stretch his mouth in an awkward mockery of a smile. The smudge of scarlet red at the edge there, too red to be anything but painted on, confirmed his suspicions, and he let go with a smug smirk. "But it is probably your fault that you kissed back."

Turning on his heel, Vico began making his way toward the location the informant-barkeeper had marked down. He had been given ample time to memorize it without looking at the map every few seconds - it was just a matter of knowing your north from your south, and counting the buildings until then.

"You are probably right," he admitted with his own smirk.

Adamo followed close behind, pulling up his hood. The streets were vastly empty at this time of night, and if they stuck to the shadows, it was likely no one would see them. The only downside would be if Celtis proved to make a commotion about their visit - he might awaken the whole side of town. Adamo took cautionary glances around, noting where the few guards that were around patrolled, and where the few civilians that were out and about were gathering. There wasn't a lot to memorize, and the map was straightforward. (He reminded himself to burn it later anyway.)

"Sorry about the birra," Adamo mumbled from under his face mask. "I'll buy you some vino when we're back in Roma."

"You can't afford vino," Vico shot back, the voice carrying the wind in his wake as he sped through the night. Nights in Germany carried a bit more of a chill to them, being further northward, and though it was enough of a difference that it was noticeable - pinpricks of cold biting at his cheeks - it wasn't enough to be much of a bother. Eventually, Vico's running slowed to a halt, the German populace, for the most part, completely oblivious to the race that had just transpired over their unsuspecting heads.

"Celtis should probably be in that building," Vico said, waving a hand before pulling out his map to confirm. "I do not see him, but if he is as much of a paranoid old coot as the informant said, I doubt we will see his face outside."

"I should be able to at least afford a glass after this," Adamo near-pouted, skulking behind quietly.

At a corner near Celtis's home, Adamo leaned against the wall, casually looking past Vico. The windows were closed off by shutters, but the building looked easy to scale. Maybe the roof had a way in - that second floor balcony, perhaps?

"He certainly isn't making things easy. Looks like we're doing this your way." Adamo backed up a step, then bounded off the ground and up the wall of the building they were next to. His hands caught the edge of the roof and he hoisted himself up, kneeling on the corner. Adamo had nothing against climbing and running around above the city, but when it came to missions with Vico, he was hard to keep up with - he excelled when above the ground, and left those who didn't in his dust.

Vico simply raised a brow as Adamo literally jumped into the lead, following suit without hesitation. His smaller frame, though usually a disadvantage in any other contest involving his friend, only helped facilitate the launch, and probably explained why he was more of a natural above ground. On rooftops, there were just many less bigger things to bump into and get caught on.

Pulling himself onto the tiled roof silently, Vico tested the curved surface for stability first before climbing to his feet on them. All assassins knew that not every citizen kept their roofs in good condition, and they probably all had their share of bruises and scares to show for misjudging that fact. He glanced into the square-shaped courtyard, blocked in by the walls of the building. The structure resembled that of an abbey, fitting for a scholar in their day and age.

Making a slow circle around the perimeter of the yard, Vico stopped at the next corner and pointed. (During missions, these were probably the only times that one could count on Vico to remain quiet for long expanses of time.) There was a lit window on the opposite wall, and someone inside was casting long shadows up against the floor, as far as they could see. If it wasn't Celtis, then it had to be someone who could get them to Celtis, or a possible witness - both were things that had to be dealt with.

Adamo nodded, and edged around the roof closer to the window. He swung himself down to a lower balcony, landing soft on his feet, ducking behind a railing. He leaned up just enough to peer over it, seeing a man through the window sitting at a desk, picking up a pen and beginning to write - the secrets of their Order, no doubt. Adamo flexed his hidden blade out, then back in, double checking. Their mission didn't say to kill him, per say, but if they didn't come to some agreeable terms... Well, they were assassins.

Crawling up to the railing, he had a perfect path to jump from here to the window. A quick latch onto the balcony, then swing right through. He didn't turn and ask if Vico was ready; he jumped right into action, bounding through the window. To his credit, he got a hold of Celtis pretty fast, despite his decision to go ahead and just barrel through.

Vico cursed quietly under his breath as Adamo, in typical Adamo fashion, barges in unannounced. The historian was taken by complete surprise, and his weak constitution made for very little struggling before Adamo had him wrestled into submission. The aging man's paranoia had taken an obvious toll on his health and appearance. His eyes were sunken into his paling face, and his cheeks had deflated against his jutting cheekbones. He looked horrified but not shocked, as if he had been expecting a visit like this for a long , long time.

He is rightfully afraid this time, thought Vico, pityless for the wicked. "Signore Celtis, I assume?"

"We've come a long way to visit you," Adamo said, wearing a grin in his voice. His hidden blade was pulled out, nestled against the dip of the old man's neck and jaw. His weaker hands settled on Adamo's arms didn't do anything to move it.

"Y-you are part of the Order, ja?" Celtis didn't have to ask, but he did anyway.

"It hardly matters what we are, signore," Vico answered, perhaps too amiably for it to be amiable at all. Their interrogations seemed to follow this pattern more often than not - Adamo was always the more brash of the two, charging in first, asking questions later, but Vico did not go without his own fair share of executions - sometimes even when Adamo protested. "We are here for you, after all. Or namely, for your book of secrets. You will hand them over, ja?"

"B-but it is my life's work," he answered, looking for sympathy. Adamo made a muffled clicking sound with his tongue under his mask.

"Not much of a life's work if you have no life to go with it," he said, tapping the blade against the man's skin. Adamo seemed to have that habit with their targets - it made them nervous; made them jolt. He could feel it under his arm with each tap. "This could end in your favor, Herr Celtis."

Apparently frightened into silence, the old man could only whimper at the metal against his throat, and Vico, impatient as always, simply began sifting through the old man's belongings, pulling out books and papers, rummaging in drawers and lifting heavy tomes to look between them. He didn't make a big mess, but what little organization the room had was quickly falling into disarray. "Maybe we should just take everything suspicious and burn everything else. That way, if we do not have what we need, we will at least know that the Templars will not take it either."

"Or just burn everything," Adamo said casually as his free fingers pressed gently, threateningly, against a candle on Celtis's desk.

"No! Please! I'll-" Celtis hesitated. "I'll... give you everything. Please, don't burn my works. T-they are no threat." Adamo smiled as he pushed the blade further, more uncomfortably against skin, rather than away.

"Everything. I hope you know what hiding anything will result in."

"Everything!" Celtis repeated, nodding as much as the knife at his throat would allow him to. He was trembling with the effort not to move, and he hardly had the constitution or the will of a fighter; so worn thin was his resolve with his apparent paranoia that he gave in easily.

"Where is it?" Vico prompted, turning to glance over his shoulder, and he slammed the heavy book at his hand with a sharp, clapping sound that made Celtis jump.

"The bedside table!"

"Typical," Vico muttered, moving to the small wooden nightstand. There was nothing there except a lamp and a bible, and as he pulled out the slightly open drawers, he found nothing but used inks and simple vanities, like a small, unadorned mirror and a broken comb that looked like it hadn't been used in years. These were certainly no secrets, and when he emptied out the drawers, there were no elusive messages scribbled on the bottom of the container either. With a muttered swear, he stood up and drew his crossbow, aiming it for Celtis' heart. "Are you playing with me, old man? You should not try my patience."

"N-no, no! Not in the drawers. It is tucked...behind them. In the crack between the drawer and the table back." It was, technically, befitting of a paranoid old man to pull out stops like that.

As Vico rummaged to get the documents Celtis referred to, Adamo loosened his hold, glancing around the room. He even took a step or two away to look at a book shelf.

"Anywhere else?" Celtis was eager to point out where else - his finger shot out at the desk to loose papers. "Dankeschön. More helpful than I thought." With a grin, Adamo patted his cheek, sheathing his blade right next to the man's ear. He jumped, and jumped again when he unsheathed it to again point threateningly at him. They weren't quite done here.

Picking up the pages, Adamo gave each a quick glance over. They spoke of the Order of assassins, and while not all the secrets written were true, enough were to create trouble.

"You could've at least wrote about me, their most handsome member," he tsked.

"Watch your head there, Biagio, lest it grow too big, or there will not be enough room left in here for either of us to breathe," said Vico, with a roll of his eyes. He had a collection of sheets in his hand, and it only grew larger yet as he added Adamo's stash to the top of it. Then, nonchalantly, he nodded at Celtics, still frozen in position in the middle of the room. "Throw him outside and we will burn the rest."

"It is true, though," he protested, even as he grabbed Celtis by the front of the shirt and steered him towards a window that lead outside, rather than the courtyard. The man started to panic again, stepping awkwardly backwards.

"Stop! Wait! I-I told you they're not a threat!"

"Entschuldigung, but we can't take that risk, you see. It had come to my attention that you had plenty of warning after all, Herr Celtis." Now, the back of Celtis's legs pressed against the window sill. "This is what happens when you share secrets that were not yours to keep." Adamo shoved him back, and he fell over the ledge.

The push was more merciful than it seemed - below lied a haystack, which caught the historian's fall. (The fall wouldn't have killed him anyway.) Adamo grabbed a torch from the wall, well knowing they didn't have much time before Celtis ran off to alert someone.

"Ready to go, Alfredo?"

Vico frowned, tucking papers into his bag as he approached the window. He watched as Celtis crawled out of the haystack, clearly frazzled but very much alive, and quietly, asked, "Shouldn't we kill him?"

"No," Adamo answered simply, and held the torch to a book shelf. The paper caught fire immediately, fanning out across the shelves, spreading up and down. He set the torch down on the desk, letting the leftover papers there go up into flames as well. He went over to the courtyard window, perching on the ledge. "Are you ready or not?"

Surprisingly obedient, Vico did not jump after Celtis as the man slinked away, casting fearful glances at them over his shoulder, but his mouth did quirk downward in obvious dislike. Compared to Adamo, he had always been a great deal more merciless, and between the two of them, the Maestro must have thought they balanced each other out - the determination and the heart of an Assassin in two, rather than one. "I am an assassino," he declared, not loudly, but still proud. "I am always ready," he said, climbing onto the window himself and simply pushing Adamo off of it, expecting the other man to catch himself somehow.

It wasn't until they had jumped off the roof of the abbey and slipped back into the abandoned streets that they heard the clamor of bells, loud and ugly. "Find them!" a soldier bellowed, much too near for comfort. How had they arrived so quickly?!

"Merda, maybe you were right."

They were flooding out of a building down the road - a guard tower that was just out of their sight due to the night. The building now was lit and impossible to miss, someone sounding a giant bell that hung from the top of the tower.

Adamo didn't skip a beat - he started making a run for it.

Keeping a hand on his bag to steady it and to keep the papers from flying out, Vico did the same, taking a step to fall into a sprint alongside Adamo. As always, their chances were higher on the roofs than on foot. The guards had limited sight, even more narrowed by the fact that it was night (it could work to both their advantage and disadvantage, at times). Vico kicked off the wall and pulled himself onto its roof, heading in the general direction of the inn, but not too quickly, because they would have to lose their pursuers first.

It was an unlucky error - glancing back to make sure no one had followed them (and indeed, the yelling of foot soldiers had grown a little distant), Vico didn't turn around fast enough to see an alerted archer pull his crossbow back and aim. It was only by instinct and pure reflexes that he heard the whoosh of a bolt cutting through air, a sound that Vico himself was familiar enough to recognize immediately, and he automatically dropped into a roll to avoid it running him right through the head. Though he had dodged, it had halted his progress, and as the archer notched another round of ammunition, he shouted for his comrades in boisterous, harsh-tongued German.

"Vaffanculo!" he hissed, under his breath, already pulling his own crossbow from his back to retaliate.

the historian's secrets (cologne)

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